


Cover Stories

by Vaysh



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Voldemort Wins, Gen, Potions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-13
Updated: 2013-08-13
Packaged: 2017-12-23 09:17:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/924610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vaysh/pseuds/Vaysh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Voldemort won. Or so it seemed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cover Stories

**Author's Note:**

> This ficlet was written for the prompt "Draught of the Living Death" from the last H/D LDWS, after I got eliminated from the competition. It turned out much longer than intended (and way longer than the officially required word count of 220 words). ;) Thank you, my lovely betas [](http://catsintheattic.livejournal.com/profile)[**catsintheattic**](http://catsintheattic.livejournal.com/) and [](http://chantefable.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://chantefable.livejournal.com/)**chantefable**.

 

The headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix had been moved. The kitchen of number 12, Grimmauld Place, a long narrow room that fitted an ancient iron stove, a long table and not much more, had become too small for the ever increasing number of rebels against the Dark Lord's rule. A hall in the basement (the Black dungeons, Yaxley presumed) had become their new lair.

The young Malfoy had been such an easy target. No resistance to the Imperius at all. An inbred inclination to obey authority, fortified by a fortunate upbringing. He'd been such a good boy during the last months. Such a good spy.

Today they would smoke the rats out and finally catch the Potter prat. The Dark Lord would be so pleased.

The door of the decrepit house was rattling on its hinges, and wilted leaves were rustling on the floor of the empty hall. The gas lamps on the walls were all but dead. The house seemed deserted but this was, of course, a ruse. Draco had told them all about the inner circle of the Order hiding out in the dungeons. Outside, the Dark Lord was taking over the City of London.

They went down a narrow stairwell and moved along the passage to the iron door with the emblem of Salazar Slytherin sparkling in gold and green aventurine. The bloody door did not open easily. Forget _Alohamora_. They had to call in Dawlish who knew advanced Auror spells. But after precious minutes spent in Disillusioned silence, the door swung open without a sound.

Yaxley saw a foot first, booted in fancy dragonhide skin. To the right, a bare hand, the open palm beside the head of a very young girl. Further on a thigh, an arm, a wild tangle of bodies...

" _Lumos_ ", Yaxley whispered. He gave silent orders to the wizards beside him to do the same.

Within seconds, the hall was drenched in the light of a dozen Wand-Lighting Charms.

Sixty-two. Sixty-two bodies was all they found in the Black dungeons. Harry Potter was not among them.

Yaxley discovered every single one of the traitorous Weasley brood. He even recognised that old cow, McGonagall, even though he'd never been to Hogwarts (Durmstrang man all the way through). She was lying on her side, tartan robes flowing on the bare floor. Beside her sat the werewolf, eyes closed, back to the wall, arms around his pink-haired bastard wife.

There was no movement, no sound in the low dungeon. The crunching of Dolohov's new leather boots, the soft sounds of his own men moving amongst the bodies – this was all Yaxley heard. Even his own breath sounded loud in the stillness of the hall.

"They're all dead."

"How can they all be dead?"

Someone brought a small mirror and held it to the werewolf's mouth. Nothing. They tried the pink-haired witch. She was not breathing either. The mirror remained clear as the surface of a lake in the morning.

A word made the rounds among the Death Eaters, a soft whisper echoing back from the walls. _Curse._ Yaxley did not know who uttered it first. But Dolohov was the first to pick it up.

"It's a Curse, perhaps all the way back from Slytherin's time. It's been sitting in these walls. Blood traitors and Mudbloods cannot enter the dungeons and leave them alive."

One by one the Death Eaters stepped away from the dead. If it hadn't been such a mess, Yaxley would have laughed at them. Not for a moment did he believe such superstition. There was no magic, no matter how dark or old, that could kill sixty-two wizards and witches in one blast. Killed them without a struggle, from the looks of it. There was a peacefulness about these dead. Not one wand had been drawn.

Yaxley sniffed the damp air. A faint smell like absinth hovered over the bodies. He chuckled. The Order members must have enjoyed a healthy dose of the poets' drink before they topped themselves. How very fitting for those traitorous fools. The Dark Lord's take-over of London must have stripped their minds of all delusions; they must have seen that their defeat was final, irrevocable. Death Eaters had been commanding the Ministry since 1997 but the heart of wizarding Britain was beating in Diagon Alley. Now the Dark Lord was holding the heart in his hands, to purify it, to rid it of all Muggle excesses and return magic to it, undiluted as it should be of Mudblood influence. The Weasleys' hovel of a shop, full of Mugglish contraptions and cheap magical tricks, had been the first building to be burned to the ground.

The Order must have gathered in this hall, to leave this life together. Only Potter, stubbornly obstinate boy that he was, would never succumb to suicide. He must have left, unable to convince his followers to keep on fighting. But Potter was a child, only a boy with an ugly scar, and alone now but for a straggle of loyal friends. They would find and make short shrift of them. Potter would be wishing he'd gone with his comrades behind the veil, leaving in an absinth-induced, merciful stupor.

Yaxley allowed himself a small smile. The young Malfoy had earned his place at the right side of the Dark Lord. _Draco_ Malfoy succeeded where Lucius had failed.

Let the rabble believe that a curse had struck down the Order. It was good propaganda to have old magic on their side. A sensational cover story for tomorrow's edition of the _Prophet_. But he knew better. Yaxley looked across the hall, bodies sprawled on the floor. There was a pattern to it, a certain deliberate positioning of heads and arms. No, this was no curse. The Order of the Phoenix had given up, in the very sense of the word. Now, the Dark Lord's reign could truly begin.

= =

The Death Eaters left the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. The first few all but made a run for the front door. Big men, all of them, and yet none wanted to stay one second longer in this cursed house of death.

The next followed more slowly. Pale, dark-haired Antonin Dolohov was among them. They scoured the entire building and went through every single room. They filched the library for random books on ancient (preferably Dark) magic; they snatched pieces of treacle tart from the kitchen table. Those sugar-sprinkled puddings should have made them pause. But they did not think twice about how odd it was to find freshly baked treacle tart in a house full of bodies.

Yaxley, the white-haired Head Auror was the last to leave the dungeons. And damn him, but he'd found the iron key to the dungeons in Shacklebolt's robes. A sneaky one, this one, a thorough one. One to watch out for in the years to come. He locked the hall, rendering it pitch-black, a hole for the bodies to rot in the dank air. Yaxley checked all the rooms, the storage cellars, the attic; he lingered far too long in the kitchen. Dolohov's heavy-booted steps were echoing through number 12, Grimmauld Place, but not Yaxley's. You never heard a sound from him. Finally, he showed up in the library. Took a last glance at the ravaged and depleted shelves. Then he snapped his fingers and Vanished the dungeon key in his hand. His own brand of wandless magic. Impressive. Yes, Yaxley, they would have to look out for.

The heavy front door had barely fallen shut behind the Head Auror when something rustled in the kitchen. Something, or rather somebody: Harry Potter, on the very top of the Ministry's Undesirable list for years, appeared in the corner beside the stove, limb by limb revealed as he shrugged off the Invisibility Cloak.

With a clank the door of a kitchen cupboard snapped open and Draco Malfoy came crawling out. A double-spy following in the footsteps of his mentor. With a grimace he quickly cast a cleaning charm on his robes. Dobby, the house-elf, came trailing out of the cupboard after him. The elf lifted his right foot and patted spider-webs from his colourful sock.

Malfoy drew his wand from the sleeve of his robes. A few spider-webs were still clinging to his back. Potter came closer, bundling up the Cloak and slipping it in his pocket. His eyes moved back and forth between Malfoy and the long kitchen table that looked bare but for the ravaged plates of treacle tart.

"Do it," he said.

" _Finite._ " Malfoy made a small motion with his wand.

Only Dobby blinked. The two wizards grinned at each other and opened the cupboards in search of spoons and cups.

On the table sat three copper cauldrons, each too big and heavy for one man alone to carry. All three were filled to the brim with a bright green potion.

Dobby blinked again. The cauldrons sparkled in the sunlight streaming in through the narrow kitchen windows. Out there in London, not all seemed lost to the Dark.

"Dobby," Draco Malfoy called. "What are you staring at? Get going. We need to bring the cauldrons down and start feeding the Wiggenweld Potion to our beloved dead."

House-elves, as a rule, hated dungeons. Dobby especially hated the dungeons in the Ancient House of Black, secured with ominous and magical snakes. He had enough of snakes for a life-time (and house-elves easily outlived wizarding kind). But he happily followed Potter and Malfoy who carried the first of the cauldrons. He himself was loaded with silver spoons. It was a good thing that Potter spoke Parseltongue or they would not have been able to open the door. But snakes will always do a true Parselmouth's bidding.

Sixty-two had suffered the living death. Sixty-two they woke with spoonfuls of potion shoved down their throats. The Order of the Phoenix was no more. Instead, Voldemort was fighting an army of living ghosts.

= =

 

 


End file.
